Around & Around
by 09999999
Summary: Molly and Sherlock dance around each other and work through years worth of hurt. Five-part series - complete!
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

 **I need a new liver.**

 **SH**

There's an awful long waiting list for those.

MH

 **For science.**

 **SH**

Have you started drinking?

MH

 **Of course not.**

 **SH**

 **Can I pick it up in an hour?**

 **SH**

No. I'm fresh out of livers.

MH

 **You're lying.**

 **SH**

How could you possibly deduce that over text?

MH

 **Easily.**

 **SH**

 **Please? Molly?**

 **SH**

Fine. I'm at the morgue.

MH

* * *

Molly _knew_ that when it came to Sherlock and his constant demands, she was a complete and _utter_ pushover. She knew she was pathetic, and that Sherlock used her obvious schoolgirl crush on him to his advantage whenever it suited him, and that just when she'd had enough of it, he'd reel her back in with a phony - but _oh so handsome_ \- smile and an offhanded compliment that he didn't mean. She was well aware of her dysfunctional, possibly damaging love for him, and yet she couldn't _do_ anything. She was a slave to her ridiculous feelings, which would listen to no manner of reasoning.

And so, when Sherlock arrived forty-five minutes later, glancing expectantly up and down her person - he wanted the bloody _liver_ \- Molly blushed, hated herself, and handed him a package wrapped in brown paper.

"Thank you, Molly," said Sherlock, tucking the package into his depthy greatcoat and turning on his heel to go.

"Have a nice day, Sherlock," she called after him. He waved an absent hand over his shoulder in response.

Molly sighed and returned her attentions to dead Mr. Wellington. He had a wart on his nose.

* * *

Later that evening, Molly flopped onto her sofa and dejectedly picked up yesterday's paper. Her eyes scanned the pages without comprehending the headlines, not even one that read _**Great Detective Holmes to put Scotland Yard Out of Business?**_ She listened to the grandfather clock in the hall tick until it drove her mad and she stormed out of the parlor to open its face and angrily unhinge the cogs inside. Then she went to bed, lying there regretting everything - Sherlock, the liver, the clock. The dead quiet in her empty flat was even more unbearable.

* * *

"You are a cold, heartless bastard and I'm ashamed of you," John said.

"And?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"You're _beyond_ cruel to Molly Hooper," John went on despite Sherlock's uninterested tone. "She's fancied you for ages, and you don't ignore it, no! That'd be too kind. You deliberately, knowingly abuse her!"

" _Abuse_ her?" Sherlock echoed, his drawl now tinted with sardonic amusement.

"Yes!"

"How?"

"Literally and emotionally. You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sherlock. You're disgusting. Getting her to steal bits of bodies from the morgue, toying with her emotions when she tells you no..."

"And what would the _righteous_ doctor suggest I do? Beg forgiveness?"

"That'd be a start."

* * *

 **I need you.**

 **SH**

I'm busy. No severed toes today.

MH

 **I don't need toes, I need your help.**

 **SH**

With what.

MH

 **A little experiment. Come to Baker Street?**

 **SH**

I told you, I'm busy.

MH

* * *

Molly held out a text or two longer than usual, but in the end, she agreed to meet Sherlock at his flat at six o'clock, right after work. Part of her despised him for his vague demands, the way he had her wrapped around his finger, but the other part - a much, _much_ stronger part - was giddy with excitement. She hadn't been to Baker Street in ages, not since she'd helped Sherlock on a case, taking John's place when John wasn't speaking to the detective. Molly inwardly wished she possessed John's stoney resolve. _She_ could never stay mad at Sherlock for long. _She_ never had it in her to punish him for mistreating her. _She_ let him walk all over her like an old rug.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to find Molly - bundled up in her green cashmere sweater and a blue stocking cap that _almost_ clashed, but not quite - with her fist poised comically in a knocking position.

"Beat you," Sherlock said jokingly, smiling.

Molly didn't respond, her face such an obvious display of mixed emotions that Sherlock could've read it in his sleep. The angel on his shoulder (Fine, yes, the angel was _John_ \- to be fair, so was the devil) whispered angrily in his ear. _You did this to her, you bastard. You're the reason Molly Hooper is such a mess right now. You're despicable._ His smile faltering slightly, Sherlock stepped aside to let her into the apartment.

He'd cleaned up a bit, disposing of the week-old takeaway containers littering the coffee table and sweeping a few dust bunnies beneath the sofa. The flat still looked bad, by Ms. Hudson's standards, but Sherlock's couldn't bear something so dull as _tidying_ for long.

"What do you want?" Molly asked pointedly, seating herself in John's chair without being invited. She'd had a long, stress-filled day at the morgue, and she wasn't up for Sherlock's games. If she didn't find his "experiment" worth her time, she wasn't staying. At least that's what she told herself.

"I… wanted to talk," Sherlock began, sinking into the sofa across from her and steepling his hands beneath his nose.

"You said this was an experiment," Molly countered. "Why'd you lie?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said, and Molly's sour expression indicated that he'd better cut to the chase. "This _is_ an experiment. I've never tried… apologizing."

* * *

Molly didn't believe him, and understandably so. His apology was so stunted, gruff, and peppered with sardonicism. It felt too much like his usual manipulation. When he was through, Molly just shook her head, eyes raised to heaven, and got up to leave.

Sherlock, shell-shocked that his meticulously strategized apology had failed to deliver the expected results - Molly's instant forgiveness, perhaps a few joyfully shed tears, etc - didn't stop her.

* * *

 **Why didn't you believe me?**

 **SH**

 **Molly?**

 **SH**

 **I have to know what didn't work.**

 **SH**

Leave Molly alone, Sherlock. Stop texting her.

JW


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

" _It has come to my attention, by way of our mutual friend John Watson, that I have committed a series of insensitivities towards you over the course of our longstanding relationship - a social faux pas, if you will, which is sometimes referred to as 'leading' a person 'on...'_

" _Furthermore I have constantly demanded toes, fingers, noses, spleens and the like from you, and have perhaps taken advantage of your willingness or obligation to provide such parts, especially in springing particularly short-notice requests upon you..._

" _In conclusion, as these iniquities have come to my attention and I, Sherlock Holmes, have been deeply moved by regret, I very sincerely submit myself before you and beg your forgiveness…_

" _Please, my dear, dear friend, Molly... I have been so foolish… So blind to your goodness and loveliness..."_

* * *

Molly _still_ wasn't convinced. She'd had zero contact, either via text or in person, with Sherlock for five days straight. The sentimental, lovestruck voice in her heart grew fainter and fainter by the day, giving way to the angry, bitter, one hundred percent _done_ voice that cursed Sherlock and his crafted words, so utterly void of sincerity. His "apology," if one could even call it that, had flipped a switch; it had shed a sudden, gloriously revealing shaft of light in Molly's mind.

Her beloved Sherlock was a sociopath. He couldn't feel remorse; he couldn't even give her a heartfelt apology, let alone return her love for him. It was time to move on. With every day that passed, Molly was surer of it.

* * *

 **Let's go clubbing tonight.**

 **SB**

I don't feel like it, Sarah.

MH

 **Come on, Mols, we haven't been out in ages! Well, you haven't.**

 **SB**

 **It'll be fun, I promise. Just come.**

 **SB**

Not in the mood. Reruns and tea tonight.

MH

 **Don't you think you're a little young for spinsterhood?**

 **SB**

I'm not a spinster.

MH

* * *

Sherlock missed John. He hadn't thought he would, but now that John had moved in with Mary, Sherlock was perpetually reminded of his vacance. The kitchen was unnaturally quiet in the early mornings, without John banging about, jovially making his tea and cereal; the wee hours seemed endless, without John yelling at him to give the violin a rest for the night; worst of all, John's tattered old armchair in the parlor seemed to haunt him, not only with memories of John, but of Molly, whose eyes had bored into him so hollowly, so _dubiously_ , before she left the flat all those nights ago.

He was going insane.

* * *

 **I'm picking you up at nine - I won't take no for an answer, Mols.**

 **SB**

* * *

"John! Didn't expect you," Sherlock greeted the doctor, who paid an unofficiated visit to Baker Street that evening, just after nine o'clock.

"You didn't?" John asked. He gave a bemused smile as he settled into his chair, but in truth, he wasn't joking. He was genuinely surprised Sherlock hadn't deduced his coming.

"How could I possibly have known that you-" Sherlock, whose eyes had been closed in thought, half-lifted an eyelid to take in John's appearance, "-would decide to drop to by on your way home from bowling with an old comrade? Was it Mike Stanford?"

Before John could coin a wry response, Sherlock had appraised him once more and said, "It was. Obviously. Sit down, won't you? Oh, I haven't made any tea."

* * *

Molly hated clubs. She hated everything about them. The blaring music, no matter how "edgy" her friend Sarah insisted it was, the alcohol and what it made people _do_ , and most of all, the obnoxious blokes that truly thought their flirting skills were all that and more. News flash: they weren't. They couldn't even make Molly blush, like Sherlock so easily did - _had_ \- with the tiniest remarks.

They only made her angry and caused her faith in humanity to chip away, one pick-up line at a time.

Especially tonight, when she'd been practically dragged into the place by Sarah, who was under the delusion that attempting to get Molly drunk (and, though she didn't say it, laid) was this great, best friend, 'you'll thank me later' favor.

After turning down the fifth dunderhead who offered to buy her a drink and extricating herself from a group of Sarah's buzzed, make-up caked girlfriends who were attempting to throw her onto the dance floor, Molly'd had enough. She took Sarah's keys - she'd have to get a cab home at the rate she was going, anyways - and sped home. She was back in her flat wearing sweatpants, curled up on the sofa with her tabby cat, Frances, by eleven o'clock.

* * *

"So you apologized. And she took it…?"

"Badly."

"What exactly did you _say_ , Sherlock?"

* * *

Things had been busy at the morgue that day, and after that, she'd had a thousand errands to run for her mother, who'd recently turned a corner, becoming too old and too forgetful to restock her own refrigerator or even fetch the mail. This dilemma had come upon Molly all at once, and though she was concerned for her mother, it had been a welcome distraction. Running around town for her mother kept her so preoccupied, Sherlock hadn't had the chance to leak into her thoughts.

Until now.

Molly stroked Frances' orange head idly as she flipped through television channels, barely perceiving the programs that flashed before her eyes, and tried - _tried_ \- not to think about Sherlock. But his curls, his half-smile, even those words, _my dear, dear friend, Molly... your lovelieness..._ had some infallible way of creeping back into her head. Molly wanted to press her palms over her ears and scream for his voice to _stop. Stop_ wrecking her emotions and _stop_ making a fool of her and _stop_ being _Sherlock_.

 _You've_ decided _to be over him, and that's all there is to it. Go to bed, Molly. You're silly and overtired._

"Thank you, Frances, you're absolutely right."

* * *

"Perhaps if I bought her flowers? I've heard that-"

"Sherlock! You can't make _winning_ _Molly's affections_ into another one of your intellectual games!"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head imperceptibly at John. He was blatantly asking, 'Why the hell not?'

"Because it's a dastardly thing to do! You're the one always saying you're a _sociopath_ , Sherlock, so - stay in your lane! Leave Molly Hooper well alone."


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Sherlock didn't _take_ advice. Especially not from John Watson, ex-army doctor, greying mustached ordinaire and questionably "experienced" romantic. Which one of them had a psychopath assassinator for a partner? Certainly not Sherlock. If he wanted to pursue Molly, a perfectly law-abiding, upstanding citizen, John had no right to stop him.

Now that Sherlock thought about it, he realized Molly was more eligible than he'd previously given her credit for - she was aesthetically pleasing to look at, she had good mind for a neurotypical, and, as a bonus, she was comfortable in the presence of corpses.

And so, he started with a letter.

* * *

 _Dear Molly,_

 _I have failed you in absolutely every respect. My apology on that night was unfeeling and cruel and I don't know what possessed me to speak to you as if you were a judge in a courtroom. I suppose that is the only way I know how._

 _I can't stop thinking about you. Can we talk?_

 _Sherlock_

* * *

Molly spotted the letter at once. It was waiting for her when she arrived home from work, propped innocently against a vase on her hearth, placed just _so_ , so her eyes would be draw right to it. Only one person, she realized, could've discerned such impeccable placement.

She lifted the envelope daintily with her thumb and forefinger as though it might burn her, and read the inscription. She recognized the handwriting at once, and with her suspicions confirmed, she dropped it immediately into the fireplace and lit a blaze. She wasn't letting Sherlock back into her good graces just like that. Not a chance.

* * *

Sherlock paced in his flat, from the kitchen to the far window and back again, hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were becoming sore and stiff from being clenched for an hour or more, but he paid no heed to them or to the thundering headache behind his left temple. He only thought of Molly. He deduced the chances of her reading the letter, and from there, the chances of her calling him.

Sherlock figured the odds were in his favor. Molly had fancied him practically since they'd met, years ago. He'd seen the way her cheeks flushed in his presence, the way her nervous, self-conscious habits kicked in when he looked at her. Despite every "bad" thing John seemed to think Sherlock had done to her, the signs of her affection hadn't waved in the slightest over time. Why should they, now?

Despite his tireless calculations, there was one factor Sherlock had naively neglected to incorporate - Molly's feelings. And it just so happened that, thanks to his last witless action, they'd finally been stretched far enough to snap.

* * *

 **Perhaps you could talk to Sherlock. He's a bit out of his mind.**

 **JW**

Per the usual.

MH

 **Touche. But still - it's hard to explain, let me call you.**

 **JW**

If you like.

MH

* * *

"Hello, John, how're you?"

"I'm well, Molly, and yourself?"

"Fine. Been busy - actually, I'm busy now. Perhaps we could save this until later," Molly said. She felt half-bad for trying to brush John off, but she wasn't in the mood to hear a single word in Sherlock's favor.

"Please, Molly. This'll only take a minute. It's just-"

Molly sighed. "Fine."

"Sherlock's been awful. I mean, I don't blame you for punishing him, he's a moron, but all he talks about is how much he wants to talk to you."

"You think I'm punishing him, John? That's what you think?" Molly's pitch rose, and she felt her nose beginning to sting. Not good. "I have to go."

"Wait, Molly, I was just trying to-"

"Goodbye, John." Molly's voice cracked on his name. She hated herself for hanging up on him so rudely, when he was trying to be a friend, when he only wanted to help, but she'd hate herself even more for sobbing pitifully into the phone.

* * *

Molly called in sick the following day. Between caring for her mother who lived across town, trying to unravel her knotted emotions, and swallowing the frequent sobs that threatened to rise from her throat, she truly did feel ill.

* * *

Sherlock wandered listlessly about his flat all day, somehow unable to enter into his Mind Palace, as though something inexplicable was blocking his entry. It was infuriating, and he could only wonder what had been _wrong_ , this time with his letter of apology. He'd Googled "sincere apologies" and strategically combined the highest-rated ones, then tailored it to Molly's personality in particular - he knew her to appreciate simplicity and pity the feeble - and yet she still hadn't contacted him. He was obviously missing something important.

John was refusing to help him. When Sherlock texted, John's replies were short and extremely unhelpful. Sherlock had even resorted to reaching out to the his pregnant, assassin wife, but Mary had cut him off straight away.

"This is between you and Molly, Sherlock, and if you ask me, it's been a long time coming. I'm not getting involved," she'd told him forcefully, patronizingly. Sherlock hung up on her.

* * *

Molly's mobile beeped at 2 o'clock in the morning and woke her in an instant. She rolled over in bed to reach for it, mumbling curses at herself for forgetting to turn it off. She'd only _just_ drifted to into a fitful sleep, her thoughts having kept her up late, tossing and turning. Whatever moron had seen fit to text her at this hour had it coming.

She propped herself onto her side in bed and picked up her mobile sitting on her side table. The name she least wanted to see flashed before her half-closed lids and she groaned in exhaustion. If she'd been fully awake and alert, she probably wouldn't have even opened the text, but at this hour, she wasn't thinking straight. She pressed "open."

* * *

 **I can't stop wondering about you, Molly, about how you're doing, about what I did so wrong that you won't speak to me. My Mind Palace is blockaded and I haven't slept in days. I can only reason that this sensation I'm feeling, that's keeping me awake and restless, is care. Care for you. Please, Molly, I'm begging you. Speak to me again.**

 **SH**

* * *

Molly stared at her mobile screen until it went dark. She immediately clicked it, reading Sherlock's message again and again. He sounded so _helpless_. Molly had never heard him say anything remotely as… human. She didn't know what to think.

Did he mean it, or had he just taken his manipulation game to the next level? Faking remorse? Was he capable of that?

Molly pounded her forehead with her palm and made an angry sound halfway between a groan and a squeak. Of _course_ he was capable of that. _Sherlock_ was capable of anything. He'd go to any length to get what he wanted.

But why did he want her?

Because she'd turned him down.

Was that it?

Had he taken her rejection of his apology so badly that he'd fane heartsickness to get her back?

Why did he care so much?

Why was he pretending to?


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

 **You and Sherlock made up yet?**

 **JW**

I don't know what there is to make up.

MH

 **Your friendship, Molly!**

 **JW**

Right. Friendship.

MH

I don't know, John.

MH

* * *

Molly never texted Sherlock back. As much as she'd wanted to demand why he was acting like he _cared_ after years of agonizing indifference, Molly was firmly anti-texting when it came to heart-to-hearts. If that's what it was going to be. Texts were too easily misinterpreted, sarcasm too easily mistaken for sincerity and vice versa. She'd learned her lesson after her and Tom's dramatic break-up the previous spring - they'd done it over text. That wasn't an experience she was keen to relive.

* * *

 **Sherlock, I realize I may have been too harsh with you on the phone the other day.**

 **MW**

 **Maybe we can talk. I can be a listening ear.**

 **MW**

Piss off, Mary.

SH

* * *

Molly was walking to the subway after getting off her late shift at the morgue, intending to pick up a coffee on her way back as she often did. The caffeine helped her stay alert on the subway. When she was a girl, she'd read a story in the paper about a young woman who drifted off on the subway and was attacked by the driver at the end of the line. It was nothing but paranoia, an entirely irrational fear, but Molly couldn't seem to shake it, even after years of riding the subway without so much as a pickpocketing incident.

As she made her way to the twenty-four hour cafe a few blocks south of St. Bart's, Molly contemplated meeting with Sherlock to talk, to clear the stifling air between them. She wasn't entirely sure what that might look like, but she was beginning to tire of steering clear of Baker Street, and especially of the awkward exchanges with John and Mary who insisted on staying "uninvolved" and yet kept pestering her - and Sherlock, too, no doubt - to make amends.

Molly reflected that John and Mary were both far more likeable as individuals than they were as a couple. It was the unfortunate truth.

And she kept thinking about Sherlock's text. What had that been? And if it'd been what she was trying so hard to convince herself it _wasn't_ \- a declaration - did she want that? She'd loved Sherlock for so long. So why wasn't she happy that he finally might've softened towards her?

Molly didn't know what she wanted anymore. All she knew was that she was tired, tired of it all.

* * *

Sherlock had tired of wandering around in his apartment, so he took to wandering London instead. All day, he aimlessly rounded corner after corner, a right here and a left there, barely aware of his surroundings. His Mind Palace was frozen, leaving him with little to do but let thoughts of Molly, like a warm western wind, blow through and thaw it out, bit by bit.

It wasn't until late that he realized that the winter cold had chilled him to the bone - he'd forgotten his coat. Not really caring, Sherlock ducked into a shabby-looking cafe for some warmth.

* * *

Molly swung open the door to the cafe, the bell jangling cheerfully despite the drab Wednesday hour, and there he was, standing at the counter, ordering a tall black tea with honey. He turned at the sound of the bell, and then, there they were. After two weeks of avoidance and virtually no interaction, they were finally standing, face to face. Their eyes met, as they'd done so many times before, and yet this time was distinctly different.

* * *

 _Molly_ , Sherlock's world slowed, the edges of his vision blurred. All he could see was her. _Molly._

* * *

Any consideration of a reasonable, rational discussion with Sherlock flew out of her mind in an instant, being replace hard and fast by the emotions she'd so determinedly suppressed over the past twenty-four hours. It all came flooding back - his apology, the letter she'd burned (and immediately regretted), and the text that had confused her more than anything else.

Molly felt a sudden anger roaring up in her. This was betrayal. How dare he show up here? This was _her_ place. She'd never met him there before, he shouldn't even know she came, but of course - he was _Sherlock_ \- of course he know.

This was an ambush, Molly was sure of it. She wasn't about to fall for another one of his tricks. Not again.

"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice low, almost dangerous.

Sherlock flashed that the easy, toothy smile and said something about an evening cuppa and Molly lost it completely.

"How _could_ you?" she exclaimed, the purest anger - and pain - dripping from every syllable. The few customers in their vicinity tensed. The cashier behind the counter raised her eyebrows, clutching Sherlock's tea, her eyes shifting from Sherlock to Molly with concern.

"How could I what?" Sherlock countered, his composure faltering a measure. His smile dropped and he was watching Molly with that intent, misty gaze.

"Come here! Invade _my_ space! I was safe here!" she spluttered, knowing even as the words tumbled from her that they made no sense, and yet she couldn't staunch them. "Safe from you and your mind games! I'm tired of it! I wish you'd just-! Disappear! You've only made me miserable as long as I've known you!"

"Molly…" Sherlock began, his eyes widen, eyebrows draw in in - was it? - sadness. _No_ , Molly insisted to herself. It was confusion. The sociopath didn't _understand_ emotions. As always. "I'm…"

* * *

An apology was ready on Sherlock's lips, a second one - but this time, entirely unplanned. He didn't know what he was going to say beyond 'sorry.' But he _had_ to express how much he regretted… everything. He had to make her see that he _meant_ it.

* * *

"No, Sherlock," Molly interjected. "Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't tell me you understand. You _don't_. You never _will._ And that's why I want you out. Of. My. Life." Her voice cracked on the last word, her knees threatening to buckle. She felt as though she might collapse, or simply fade away into nothingness, every atom of her being finally drifting too far apart.

She wiped frantically at her eyes as they rapidly filled with hot, messy tears and choked back a sob. The cafe had gone deadly silent, so she heard, with resounding, excruciating clarity, every step Sherlock took, heard his shallow breaths as he brushed past her, and the bell jangling as he left the shop.

* * *

Sherlock stormed away from the cafe, his mind racing at top-speed. His usual methodological, efficient thinking was thunderously overtaken by the resounding heartbeat in his ears and the stabbing pain in his chest.

 _You've only made me miserable… Disappear… Out of my life…_ the words rung through his mind, over and over, deafening him.

He'd been _so close_ to making things right.

He made it a block or two before collapsing on a graffiti-covered park bench, too overwhelmed to continue walking and processing in tandem. Sherlock threw his head back over the bench's back, taking slow, deep breaths in attempts to bring down his heartrate. A smattering of raindrops tumbled down onto his cheeks but he didn't bother with wiping them away.

Her words, the way her voice had given out at the end, kept playing through his mind.

All he could think was, _Is she right?_

* * *

After standing rooted to the spot for several minutes, trying in vain to swipe away her tears as fast as they came, Molly was gently asked to either order or leave the cafe, and she readily vouched for the latter. She boarded the subway, feeling thoroughly sickened with herself. What had she said? She couldn't even recall it all, but that look, that _look_ in Sherlock's eyes told her everything she needed to know.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

Molly cried herself to sleep the night of her blow-out with Sherlock. How could she've been so stupid, so utterly careless with her words? After years and years of never, _ever_ saying what she felt, it had come out all at once, bursting from her like water from a dam that'd finally crumbled under the force of an overpowering current. She'd been so terrifyingly unkind to him, and in the middle of a public place, too. The entire ordeal was straight out of a nightmare from Molly's teenage years.

How could she ever face him again?

* * *

Sherlock spent the night in a London park, on the very bench he'd stopped at after meeting Molly - well, 'meeting' was a tame way of putting it. He couldn't find the strength in him to walk home to Baker Street, or even hail a cab.

He'd thought he'd truly felt remorse. He'd thought that he'd finally come to an understanding of how Molly felt, and of how his brusque actions had been instrumental to her current state of… heartsickness. He'd _thought_ he could get his apology right. But he'd been wrong - for the second time. But where Molly had once mystified him by her reaction, walking out without explanation, her words in the cafe had made her stance crystal clear.

She couldn't love him anymore.

Why? Because she thought he was a hopeless case, an unfeeling monster. And she wanted him out of her life, for good.

Sherlock supposed his best course of action was to honour her request. Pursuing her any further - because _yes_ , it hadn't been a pure coincidence that he'd gone into the cafe so near her work, right after he knew her shift ended - would only worsen his image in her eyes.

He'd better just stop. Go back to being a sociopath - or, to quote John, _stay in his lane_ \- things were easier that way.

* * *

It was three o'clock in the afternoon the following day, a bright Friday afternoon, two weeks since Sherlock's first apology - the dreadful inciting incident that had brought Molly's world down around her ears - and Molly couldn't live with herself another minute. She'd been unforgivably mean to her friend, her _Sherlock_ , and there was no rationalizing or justifying what she'd done.

And now it was _she_ that owed _him_ an apology; it was he who was in the position to turn her away with a scornful glance.

* * *

"You have reached the mobile phone of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes-" it was John's clip, businesslike voice that informed her of this, "-who's not able to answer his phone right now. If you're a client, please leave your name and a brief description of your case, and he may get back to you."

Molly smiled grimly, knowing full well how much was contingent upon that 'may.' Sherlock _may_ get back to you. If your case is interesting enough. If he's not busy making paper cranes. If he's bored enough. Or if he's high and in the mood for a wild goose chase. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

The beep sounded on the other end and Molly took a deep breath before beginning to speak into the receiver. She shut her eyes, picturing Sherlock's face. That smile she so loved. Instead, the empty, broken, _remorseful_ stare he'd given her at the cafe flashed in her mind's eyes. Her voice wobbled as she began.

"Hi, my name is Molly Hooper and I've got an urgent case. I've deeply, deeply hurt the man I love and now I'm afraid I've- I've lost him forever. Please c-consider taking my case."

A breath of silence but for the muted buzz of static in her ear.

"Thank you."

* * *

Sherlock watched as his mobile blinked and vibrated, Molly's number flashing before him - he'd memorized it, never bothering to save her name in his contacts - and he let it go, too shell-shocked to press 'Accept.' Hadn't she told him, _hours_ ago, that she wanted him out of her life for good?

He could only deduce that she'd called to vent and rage some more. She'd harbored affections for him for how long? About four years, nine months, and twelve hours since they'd first met? (Why hadn't he deleted that information? It was, strictly speaking, useless.) Molly undoubtedly had much, _much_ more to say to him - her outburst in the cafe had probably only scratched the surface of her anger.

Sherlock didn't think he could handle anymore of it.

* * *

Twenty-minutes later, Molly called him again, silently begging him to pick up, pick up, pick _up_.

* * *

Why was it that when Molly had expressed nothing but ill-concealed affection and care for him, Sherlock had brushed her off, but now that she wanted nothing to do with him, _now_ he realized that he felt something for her in return?

She must be right. He truly understood nothing.

Sherlock didn't have a chance with Molly Hooper. She was, and always had been, far too good for him.

* * *

"John, hello, it's Molly, I need to speak to Sherlock. Is he with you?"

"No, I've not spoken to him all day."

"Damn."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Just - do you know where he is?"

"Sorry, Molly, I haven't the foggiest. Have you gone by his flat?"

"I'm standing outside his door now. Either he's not home, or he doesn't want to let me in."

Molly overhead a muffled conversation - and Mary's voice - on the other end. John was saying something about his laptop.

"Hang on for one moment, if you will, Molly. I can track Sherlock's phone, see where he is - I installed an app when he wasn't looking. Just give me a second."

Molly exhaled heavily, grateful for John. "Yes, alright."

A few moments passed before John's voice came in again. "Odd. He's in the park by St. Bart's. Or at least, his mobile is."

"Thank you! John, I'm going now. And - before you offer - it's best I handle this alone."

Molly hung up before John could ask what was wrong or insist on joining her. She couldn't spare a moment - not when every moment seemed to widen the chasm between her and Sherlock by miles.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the familiar pair of dark blue rain boots, his brain blanking in complete disbelief. The glaring evidence was before him - Molly's boots, right there on the park path before him - and yet he couldn't comprehend it. He'd been so _sure_ he'd never see her again. She'd been so final in the cafe.

And yet.

"I need to speak to you, Sherlock," her voice said, sounding both determined and, somehow, defeated.

Sherlock was still staring at her feet, unmoving.

"Please."

There was a long, pregnant standstill. Finally, Sherlock raised his eyes, travelling up her disheveled, mismatched assortment of clothing (she'd gotten little to no sleep and hurried out the door without buttoning her jacket properly), lingering a moment on her chin, as though afraid to go further, and then, finally meeting her wide, brown eyes.

"I thought you said-"

"I know, I said some terrible things, Sherlock, but I didn't mean any of them!" Molly cried with bare desperation. "Well, I thought I meant them, but when I looked at you, I realized how wrong - how _awfully_ wrong I was about you. I've been so unfair to you ever since you first tried to apologize. I didn't listen, I just assumed - I assumed that you didn't mean anything, that you didn't care, that it was all just a game to you..." she trailed off uncertainly, exhaling a shaky breath and watching him, waiting for a response - she just wanted him to see how _sorry_ she was.

Oh, how the tides do turn.

* * *

It was literal minutes before Sherlock found his voice, having been inexplicably struck dumb by Molly's newest declaration, which went against everything she'd said before and failed to meet up with logic and was exactly, _precisely_ what he wanted to hear, in his heart of hearts.

"Molly…" he said, his voice faint. "You were never just a game to me." His eyes still locked on hers, even as they welled up - with tears of joy, this time - Sherlock stood and took a step toward her. One step, and he was a mere breath away.

They stood, Molly's face lifted toward his and his craned down to hers, not daring to move or break the silence. Finally, the air felt clear, breathable again, between them. And yet the last remaining inches that now separated somehow felt like the vastest of chasms.

Neither could be sure who first leaned in to bridge the gap - perhaps it had been simultaneous, indicating that their hearts and minds had, at long last, fallen into perfect sync...

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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